


build a fire; warm and bright

by tanoposting



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Parenthood, Phoenix Nest, Phoenix Nest Discord, Phoenix Nest Summer Exchange, Space Dad Kanan Jarrus, Space Mom Hera Syndulla, self indulgent family fluff who??? no but really, they are fools and i love them, with a small side of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:27:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25653616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanoposting/pseuds/tanoposting
Summary: Four times the Ghost Crew and company used Kanan as a human pillow (And the one time Kanan decided to do the same).Written for the Phoenix Nest Summer Exchange 2020, as a gift for annalamb. Thank you to my beta reader Hazy!(Title from Talk to Me by Cavetown)
Relationships: Ezra Bridger & Kanan Jarrus, Kanan Jarrus & Hera Syndulla, Kanan Jarrus & Sabine Wren, Kanan Jarrus/Hera Syndulla
Comments: 10
Kudos: 83
Collections: Phoenix Nest Summer Exchange





	build a fire; warm and bright

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so sorry for posting this so late! i had some last minute edits to finish up.,,,,, but here we are,,, still going strong!
> 
> anyways: the prompt for this fic was fluff wherein the ghost crew is happy. i hope i've delivered, lol. 
> 
> yeehaw! i wrote this mostly as a self indulgent fixit- i just rewatched all of rebels and the ending h u r t like heck. so here we are. in the corner of happiness. where nothing bad ever happens. ever.

-sabine- 

It is late. Far, far too late for anyone in their right mind to be up, but “right minds” be darned; there he is, datapad in hand, scrolling listlessly through the Holonet with tired eyes and a blank stare. Kanan doesn’t know or remember how he got there, and nor does he care to at this point- he’s much too exhausted to even move from his current spot or look up from the datapad. 

And so the man stays a motionless lump of messy hair and lazy posture, for what must be hours and hours on end.

Until his well-trained ears pick up shuffling footsteps in the crew section’s corridor and through the mind-numbing haze of days spent without sleep, the ship’s resident Jedi brings his weary eyes to the noise’s source.

Said source turns out to be the slim form of a teenage girl silhouetted in the Ghost’s fluorescent lights.

Sabine, usually so fiercely confident, exudes barely-concealed fear in the Force. He can sense it coming off of her in waves. Not that he needs his own innate ability to notice- the word “scared” might as well be written above her head in neon signage.

Instead of opening his mouth to try and comfort her; Kanan simply pats the empty seat next to him. The girl nods wordlessly and obliges, plopping down next to him.

He yawns, rolling his shoulders back to stretch. The man flashes his companion what he hopes to be a sympathetic look. “Nightmare?” 

She nods imperceptibly, hawkish hazel eyes shifting constantly; almost to the point where it seems like they’re jumping out her skull. The man heaves a sigh, placing a hand to his temple. “I used to get them too, when I was your age. It’s not uncommon, especially for your situation.”

The reassurance is slight and almost hidden, but Sabine’s not really the type for touchy-feely stuff, and thankfully, neither is he. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees some of the tension in her face relax. It’s not much, but it’s a start. 

With a groan, the rebel pushes himself to his feet and staggers toward the communal area’s small kitchenette, rummaging groggedly through the conservator and grabbing a hopefully-not-spoilt bottle of blue milk, which he promptly sticks in the nanowave oven, setting a thirty-second timer. 

He can feel the Mandalorian’s eyes, trained on his every movement, boring into his back as he calmly stirs brown powder into the milk, pours it into a mug, and holds it out to Sabine.

“What’s this?” She asks skeptically, raising a dyed eyebrow. “It’s way too late for caf.” 

“Hot chocolate,” He murmurs, still holding it out as an offering. “My master used to make it for me during the war, when we had the time.”

She wraps her hands around the mug, holding its warmth close to her chest as he sits back down, yawning. “Thanks, Kanan.”

Kanan shrugs. “Do you… want to talk about it? Your nightmare?”

Instead of answering, Sabine raises the mug to her lips and sips the liquid for as long as she can. As she takes it from her mouth to hold it to her chest, he can see her bottom lip quivering. 

Rather than acknowledge any of the girl’s visual cues, which he knows from experience to be mostly unproductive, he takes a cue from Hera and loops an arm around her shoulder. To his surprise, she leans into the gesture, breathing in and out audibly as if to soothe herself. 

They sit motionless for a moment, Sabine resting her head on Kanan’s shoulder as they both stare blankly ahead at the wall in front of them. 

Until the Mandalorian on his shoulder breaks the silence, sluggishly mumbling: “Do they ever go away?”

He wishes he could tell her yes, but Sabine knows him well enough to know when he’s lying, or at least hiding something. Besides, his silence speaks loudly enough. 

Kanan sucks in a breath, before turning to Sabine. “You should probably he-” 

He stops in his figurative tracks- he grins a bit as he sees the artist is peacefully passed out, nestling her head into the divot between his chin and shoulders and, if he listens closely; he can hear her beginning to snore softly. If he wasn’t trapped in the Ghost’s rather uncomfortable seating area, he’d say it was endearing.

He considers getting up and waking his young charge, but when he looks down at the Mandalorian (Who looks finally calm and placated in what he hopes, for her sake, is a dreamless rest), the worn-out man cannot bring himself to entertain the thought of it for any longer.

With yet another drowsy sigh, Kanan reaches for his datapad.

-ezra- 

The monsoon season on Lothal had never been a personal favourite of Kanan’s. And as he stares off the Ghost’s ramp (Where he had been trying to meditate), and into the grey of the downpour, the fugitive is quite certain that he won’t feel inclined to change his opinion anytime soon. 

Thunder roars, and he idly observes lightning jutting, like a forked tongue, from the steel-coloured clouds down to strike the low mountains bordering the grassy, empty plain the ship had landed on. 

Kanan takes a short break to check his chronometer with a deepening frown. His apprentice, who he had sent on a quick training run around two hours before, should have returned a whole lot earlier. But Kanan trusts his Padawan about as much as he hates getting wet, which is to say; quite a lot.

Such thoughts allow him to unwind, sinking with a practised ease into a meditative state, where the Living Force ebbs and flows around him, not unlike a particularly fast-flowing stream. 

Unfortunately, the long-suffering man’s respite doesn’t last much longer. Beyond the soothing reaches of meditation, he hears the booming crack of thunder. If that hadn’t jolted him out of it already, the onslaught of intensified and downright frigid rain sure did. 

Shivering, Kanan retreated up the ramp. He rubbed at his biceps, trying to return some form of heat to the limbs as his teeth chatter, but such efforts are in vain. 

Just as the cowboy Jedi moves to return to the warmth of the ship, the familiar presence of a young boy tugs at the edge of his mind. He turns around. 

Ezra stands in front of the ramp, swaying ever so slightly in the rainstorm, as he steps sluggishly toward his mentor. Kanan raises a hand in greeting, waiting for the boy at the top until his keen eyes focus on the boy’s movements. He’s shaking, Kanan realizes. 

Concerned, he walks down toward the kid, who he can see now is far too pale- Ezra looks like he’s seen a ghost. 

“H-h-hey K-kan-n-nan,” The teenager mumbles through chattering teeth, looking frozen to the bone (Despite an admirable attempt at a cocky grin). 

Kanan can only sigh, placing a guiding hand on the boy’s shoulder. 

“Let’s get you inside.” For once, the former street rat doesn’t argue. Or even say a word, as they walk together out of the cold and into the warmth of the cargo hold. They pass Hera, hunched over, and tinkering away on a piece of scrap engine. She of course turns, looking astonished at the state of her crew’s youngest member.

“Ezra, you look soaked,” The Twi’lek sputters, setting down her wrench and her jumper cables. The ship’s captain stands up, dusting off the orange pants of her flight-suit. “Are you alright?” She fusses, the ends of her lips curling into a frown and worry leaking into her voice. “Let’s get you out of those clothes, and get something warm into you.”

Ezra does nothing but flash her a shaky thumbs-up and a smile in return. “Oh, n-no,” He stammers out. “I-I’m good!"

Kanan knows this tactic all too well. This whole “I’m fine, really and truly” song and dance? He’s seen it before- in Hera, Zeb, some of his fellow Jedi (Mainly Master Billaba) during the war, and though he’d never admit it, in himself as well. So when he watches as Ezra’s face contorts for about five seconds before the kid sneezes twice in succession, the man realizes he simply cannot let this sort of routine fly. (If not for the sake of his student’s health, then his own sanity. Force knows the stoic Jedi can’t stand to watch others in pain, let alone his own apprentice.)

Hera huffs. She folds her arms and shoots him a pointed look, as if the kid’s habits are somehow the fault of his influence (He would never agree with her on that, not out loud, but she may not be fully wrong) before focusing back on their pseudo-son. “Nuh-uh. Go back to your quarters and get changed into something else, mister.”

He watches as Ezra opens his mouth to argue, but quickly closes it when he sees Hera’s stare intensify. So he does have a sense of self-preservation after all, Kanan thinks wryly to himself. 

Ezra shuffles off to go and get changed, and Hera goes back to her work with the engine parts. Not even five minutes later, the boy returns, standing in front of him with an enthusiastic grin on his face. Kanan notes some of the colour has returned to his face, and he’s significantly drier, which alleviates some of his unease.

“You look excited. Should I be worried?” The man quips, raising an eyebrow. 

Ezra scoffs good-naturedly. “You promised we could spar after I had finished my run.” Internally, Kanan slaps himself. Of course he had, he remembers it now, but he hadn’t accounted for the rain, nor Ezra’s proclivity to persevere or die trying. 

Karma. 

Briefly, he wonders whether somewhere in the vastness of the Cosmic Force, Depa Billaba is laughing. 

He looks back down at Ezra, who is either shaking from the cold or excitement. Probably both, knowing him. 

“Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?” The Jedi gently probes. “We can do it another time, I promise.” 

“Yeah! I’m great, don’t worry about it. Besides, isn’t a Jedi supposed to “overcome physical challenges” or whatever?” 

Kanan’s brows furrow. “Are you sure? You don’t have to if you aren’t feeling your best, we can do this later.”

At the suggestion, his Padawan’s resolve only seems to strengthen. If it was any other scenario, he’d be proud of the kid. “I can try!”

He swallows the instinctive “Do or do not, there is no try” and instead shakes his head. “Just try not to push yourself too far, and let’s give Hera her space.” 

The pair shift accordingly, moving to the east end of the cargo hold. They ignite their ‘sabers, blue blades shining vividly, even in the intense lights of the ship. 

Slowly, Kanan leads Ezra through their regular drills and some light katas, taking care to ensure his apprentice isn’t being run into the ground. After the katas, they move into a more rapid-paced spar.

About halfway through their practice duel, just as their blades clash once again, he notices Ezra’s forehead beginning to bead with sweat. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s panting heavily. 

Reaching out into the Force, he feels a cascade of fatigue from the Padawan, accompanied by a rush of determination. There’s no doubt Ezra wants desperately to continue, so keeping the boy’s clear overtiredness in mind, he adjusts his stance and attacks once again (Even if he decidedly puts a whole lot less effort into the strike), if only to humour the teen.

Just as the cobalt-haired boy struggles to parry his lazy thrust, he watches Ezra wobble a little, swaying as he clutches his lightsaber like it’s his only lifeline. Instead of moving to continue their fight, he deactivates his own blade, letting it recoil back into the hilt with a snap-hiss.

Ezra looks up at him with azure eyes, wide like dinner plate; confused. “Why’d you stop?” His voice sounds softer, a tad whiny if Kanan’s telling the truth. Which is odd, because Ezra’s not the type of kid to whine. He gripes and groans, sure, (Maybe a bit too much sometimes) but he doesn’t whine. 

“We’re done for today.” He states, much to Ezra’s dismay. The boy in question begins to run through excuses like he’s reciting poetry, a crestfallen look lining his features. 

“What do you mean? I’m fine, we can’t just stop here, it was just getting good! I’m okay, Kanan!”

Instead of dignifying the tangent with a response, the resigned elder Jedi brushes aside strands of messy blue hair and places a gloved hand to his student’s forehead, and tenses when he feels sweltering heat even behind the fabric of his gloves. 

“You have a fever,” The green-clad man states matter-of-factly, removing his palm from Ezra’s face. “You must have caught some kind of cold out in the rain.”

“No! I didn’t!” His mentee’s reply is as instantaneous as it is defensive. “I’m fine! We can keep going, I’m fine!”

“No, you’re not,” The beleaguered man asserts sternly, in his best impression of his Grandmaster. “Now come on, you’re going to go lie down.” 

Ezra groans, leaning his head back and mumbling something about overprotective teachers, but a sharp look from Kanan swiftly silences the sickly boy’s murmured tirade. Master Windu would be proud (If the man had indeed possessed a capacity for such feelings- Kanan genuinely had no idea).

The boy starts off in the direction of his shared quarters- hopefully, Zeb won’t be too bothered- and Kanan follows. You can’t be too careful, especially with overtired teenagers; he at least knows that much.

Ezra slows down after they climb up from the hold, staggering toward his quarters like he’s weighed down by boulders. Kanan moves toward him, and without saying anything, scoops the kid up bridal-style, like he weighs nothing. 

Ezra stays quiet- a testament to how tired the boy is, but he can feel embarrassment radiating from his presence in the Force. 

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Kanan hums, “If that’s what you’re worried about.” At his words, he can feel the boy in his arms relax a little. The man shifts the majority of Ezra’s weight into one of his arms so he can elbow the keypad, and the door whooshes open, revealing a vacant room, containing two bunk beds, and a bright, cartoonish mural courtesy of Spectre-Five.

He sets the kid down on his bunk. Ezra’s eyes are shut fast and his breathing seems a bit laboured. He’s no medic, but he’s fairly certain it has something to do with nasal congestion.

Note to self, Kanan muses, as he sits down on the end of Ezra’s bunk; take into consideration special weather conditions when planning out training runs. 

The boy stirs in his sleep, snorting a bit from what will probably turn out to be a stuffy nose later. Ezra stirs, looking like a napping youngling in the creche as he fumbles around in his sleep for a pillow. 

Kanan moves to grab it for him, not wanting the boy to wake up suddenly. He freezes when he feels, out of the blue, something grabbing hold his calf. 

Ezra has unconsciously stolen the lower part of his left leg. Kanan covers his mouth as he snorts. Oh, what he would give for the crew to have never sold their holorecorder. 

He gazes down at the boy with more affection than he’d ever admit, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Even if they are on the run from some totalitarian nightmare of a government, there are times like these where he and the rest of his motley crew can ignore the sorrow and the madness of the Empire’s galaxy, even just for a little while. 

They’re few and far between, but they’re precious nonetheless, and he’d be remiss if he didn’t treasure them deeply. Besides, he rarely sees his Padawan so... tranquil. 

With that in mind, Kanan leans back against the durasteel of the bunk. Someone’s got to keep watch over the kid, and he has an inkling of a feeling that Ezra wouldn't want anyone else to do the job.

-hera-

Since he was a crecheling, Kanan had always enjoyed space travel. He can’t quite place his finger on it, but there’s something about the vast void of space that he finds as invigorating as it is hauntingly beautiful. This is why, in the hours when most of the crew sleeps, he sequesters himself in the cockpit with Chopper or Hera, who are normally too occupied with the ship’s controls or the navicomputer to engage with him. Coincidentally, this is where he finds himself now. Holed up in the cockpit while Hera fiddles with a piece of machinery he couldn’t put a name to, even if you held a blaster to his head. 

Even with the comforting distraction of hyperspace, his mind is elsewhere. Specifically, on the Twi’lek woman sitting on the floor near him, who looks a bit too shadowy beneath the eyes. 

“Hera,” He starts, but she doesn’t look up or even acknowledge him, being completely absorbed by the complexities of her malfunctioning piece of mystery machinery. 

“Hera,” He repeats, more loudly this time, and the woman looks up rapidly.  
“Huh?” She stares dead ahead at him, blinking fatigue from her heavy-lidded jade eyes. “What is it?” 

“You look drained. If you want, I can stay up here and watch the ship while you get some rest,” He knows she’ll probably reject the offer, but he extends it anyway, if only in the hope that she may actually prioritize her own needs, just this once. 

“Thanks,” She says, shaking her head. “But I have to at least try to finish this.” 

Kanan considers his options. He could make an effort to convince her to go and get some sleep, but he knows from extensive experience that it would be utterly fruitless. Instead, he gets up from his chair and goes to sit cross-legged beside her on the round.

Hera doesn’t show any signs of having noticed his change of position, steadfastly working away. Tenacity has always been something he’d admired in her, along with a laundry list of other things- her boundless compassion, strength and well, he would never deny that Captain Hera Syndulla was in fact very good-looking. 

He watches leisurely as she tightens a few bolts and reconnects a wire, before setting the machine down and glaring at it with a fearsome intensity, as if the apparatus had just said some particularly nasty things about her dear mother. 

“What’d it do to you?” Kanan teases, elbowing the pilot gently. Hera snorts, rubbing her eyes and yawning. 

“I am way too tired for this,” She grunts, but leans over and grabs her wrench anyway. Internally, Kanan groans. Externally, however, he keeps his mouth shut and lays a hand on her shoulder. 

"If you're tired, why don't you put the tools down for a minute?" Hera exhales sharply, but humours him regardless. 

The viridescent-skinned Twi’lek leans up against him, staring wistfully out the cockpit’s windows into the flashing blue beams of hyperspace. 

Kanan wraps a strong arm around the woman, whose yearning expression immediately turns into the glowing smile he loves to see.

“After this is all over,” Hera murmurs softly, interlacing her fingers with his, “Let’s settle down, you and me.”

“That’d be nice,” He concurs, allowing the tiniest bit of hope for the future to swell up within him. “Where would you want to do that?” 

She shrugs. “Dunno. Somewhere that isn’t too hot or cold. Where we can just… live, without having to be on the run all the time.” 

He nods, a long-forgotten feeling of warmth and happiness that only seemed to present itself in scarce moments such as these taking centre-stage in his mind. “What about kids?”

“When this is all over,” The captain mutters sleepily, still clinging to her partner. “This is no place to raise a child, not right now…”

She is of course right (Like she usually is), but Kanan can’t help the smile that crosses his face at even the idea of a half-human, half Twi’lek youngling bearing his face and their names running rampant around the halls of the Ghost. 

“No, love,” He says to the woman resting on his shoulder. “Not now.”

“Soon,” Hera murmurs, smiling somnolently, as she nods off. 

“Soon,” Kanan concedes, sending a silent prayer to the Force that their wish will someday come true. “Soon.”

-zeb-

The mission to Carlac had not been either of their first choices, but Kanan had hoped the peaceful planet would offer some kind of hidden reward. He had been wrong. So very, very wrong. 

To start their “adventure” (if you could even call it that), they had been chased for what he estimated to be at least two hours by the local Imperial contingent, which, while it was certainly not a surprise, wasn’t the welcome they were hoping for. They had found shelter for a while in a small village inhabited by a people who called themselves the Ming Po- and they had been at least rather hospitable, and offered them a place to stay for the night- until, of course, they figured out the pair was with the Rebellion, and any hopes of a warm bed or even a roof to sleep under were dashed against figurative rocks. 

And so the pair had undertaken the long hike back to the Phantom, but their streak of horrid luck was far from over. A snowstorm, of all things, had completely knocked out any hope of communication, effectively stranding the duo on the delightful, freezing cold plain of wretchedness and misery that was Carlac’s mountain tundra.

Which is how he and his Lasat comrade found themselves huddled together in a cave, wrapped in a foil emergency blanket, sitting as close as they could to their pitifully puny campfire, which, at this point, was struggling to even continue to burn. 

“Zeb,” Kanan started, knowing that this was very much the wrong thing to say, but too tired and done to filter his thoughts in a manner that was anywhere near tactful. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you stink.”

“Kanan,” Zeb said, in the same even-but-laced-with annoyance tone. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but-” Kanan’s ribs were met with Zeb’s elbow and the human gave an uncharacteristically high-pitched yelp. 

Foot, meet mouth. 

Kanan rubbed his abdomen gingerly, wincing. “Point taken. Sorry.” 

He was answered with nothing but a grunt. Whether that was forgiveness or something else, he had no idea, but the Jedi aspired for something along the line of forgiveness. 

With a pained sigh (That was definitely going to bruise, wasn’t it?), he leaned over to the small pack he had brought, which had been lying by his feet and began to dig through it, searching for a rather prized piece of luggage.

The glint of metal caught his eye in the firelight, and he grabbed hold of a small holoscreen and two holodisks. 

Zeb, who had clearly been watching his hunt for the screen, guffawed. “Please tell me you didn’t seriously bring your cheap, sappy soap operas all the way out here.”

“Correction,” Kanan says, smirking and holding up two disks between his fingers, “I brought my mildly expensive, sappy soap operas all the way out here. And it just so happens we have nothing to do but wait out the storm.”

The mixture of confusion and disappointment on Zeb’s face is totally priceless, and Kanan holds back a laugh, instead choosing to deadpan: “Would you prefer Love Amongst the Dragons or The Bantha Prince?”

Zeb swallows, seeming like he’s seriously concerned for Kanan’s health and well-being. “I am not watching that drivel.”

Kanan just shrugs, popping the first disk into the drive nonchalantly as he settles into the foil blanket to watch the Ember Island Players butcher yet another well-loved piece of media.

Zeb seems content to stare ahead at the fire, impervious to him and his so-called drivel, until the sun begins to set, and from the corner of his eye, Kanan can feel him watching over his shoulder. Unseen to his friend, the Jedi smirks. It may be mindless drivel, but it’s distracting mindless drivel, and right now, that’s just what they need. 

They stay like that for what he thinks must have been hours- he doesn’t care too much to tell, but they’re on their second run of The Bantha Prince when he starts to get all heavy-eyed.

When they wake up to the sounds of a herd of tauntauns stampeding down on the plain, Zeb has Kanan in a tight grasp he has to struggle to pry himself out of. They were huddling together for warmth (Or at least, that was the only explanation they’d ever give for it).

“We are never,” Zeb growled through gritted teeth, as he pulled the furs of his coat tighter around him. “Mentioning this ever again.”

Kanan gives him a thumbs-up. There is no way the tale of their... ordeal, so to speak, is ever coming out of his mouth, not even for a million credits.

(Well, maybe for a million credits.)

-kanan-

It's been a while since Kanan had a sparring partner at his level, with the exception of an occasional Inquisitor or two. Not that he doesn't appreciate Ezra, but he is, after all, just a Padawan, with a lack of a Temple education to boot. No one expects him to act as an aid to the development of his own teacher's skills. 

However, such a long time without any sort of adequate sparring support means his skills, especially against someone his own age, are... as Master Sinube would put it, they leave a lot to be desired.

(Maybe it's the overwhelming exhaustion that washes over his bones from the three out of five nights he's spent without sleep in the past week. But it's certainly not that. Not one bit, no sir.)

So at least he has a couple of things to blame his poor performance in a training spar of all things on. Then again, it could just be the fact that it's Ahsoka Tano of all people he's facing off against.

He'll go with that. Sure. 

Two white blades pull him out of his train of thought, and he goes to parry, but his "attacker" pulls away at the last second- a clear feint, he realizes, far too late for it to even matter. 

He can hear Chopper chortle at him from behind. The orange rustbucket droid must want very much to be dismantled. Or sent to some scrapyard on Lotho Minor. Good news, Kanan is happy to do either. 

"Get him, 'Soka!" Ezra cheers, high-fiving Chopper's metal claw, apparently perfectly happy to dig himself into a hole of extra push-ups and meditation. 

The Togruta grins ferally, and Kanan is partially taken aback by how sharp her teeth are. He swings with as much effort as he can, at her feet, and she jumps to avoid the strike. Looking back on it, this is probably the worst idea he's had in the entire practice duel. (He blames it on lack of sleep, or lack of practice, or his opponent having more training than him.) Either way, this provides the lightsaber-wielding intelligence agent with the opening she needs to bring her blade near his throat.

"Do you yield?" Ahsoka smirks, and for a moment he's taken back to a moment around twenty years ago, in one of the Jedi Temple's practice rooms, and all he can think of is the beaming grin she wore after pouncing on her own Master and knocking him to the ground. He had made it a priority then, to never make Padawan Tano angry. 

Even now, through the haze of his exhaustion, he still thinks that is a very good priority to have. Maybe he does have some brain cells left after all. 

In lieu of answering, his tiredness hits him like a tsunami and he falls right over, which in hindsight, the newly-minted Knight finds extremely embarrassing. 

When Kanan wakes up, he's leaning up against the wall of the cargo hold with a massive headache. He has no idea how that last part got there, but he guesses he smacked his head. 

The man looks up, dazed, as a worried-looking Ezra and a confused Ahsoka tower over him. The former leans down. "Uhh... Kanan?"

Ahsoka's commlink beeps insistently, and she grabs it, rolling her eyes. "I have to take this," She says, then walks off, talking discreetly in a code Kanan can't understand.

Ezra sits down and scoots next to his Master, who is still, somehow out of breath from the sparring. 

"That was uh..." Ezra searches for a word. "That was something."

"Yep," Kanan says, popping the 'p' sound. "Sure was."

"I've never seen you falter like that." The boy says. "No offense- It's a good thing, right? I mean, at least it was..."

"...Ahsoka and not an Inquisitor?" The brown-haired Jedi finishes. "Yeah, yeah, you're right." 

"Is there a reason you weren't... doing your best?" His curious charge asks. Kanan can tell he's tiptoeing around the subject, and he can't exactly blame the kid. 

He inhales, pressing a hand to his temples. "Just tired."

"You've been up really late, huh? Sabine heard you last night, she thought it was me."

Kanan nods, loosely gripping the young boy's shoulder. "Just... meditating." Meditation, his shebs. He's just been finding it hard to sleep at night, that's all. What with the appearance of new Inquisitors to take the place of the last one- it's understandable. It's just adrenaline, of course. Nothing more, nothing less. 

"Uh-huh." Ezra fidgets a bit where he's sitting and he rests up against his master. "You know, I'm usually up for a while after I go to bed if you want to talk to me. Zeb snores really loud."

It's a kind invitation, but a teacher is supposed to be there for his student. Not the other way around.

"Don't worry," The elder Jedi yawns, slumping against the wall's metal plating. "M'okay."

Ezra purses his lips, looking from his master to the returning Fulcrum agent. "Ahsoka!" He says, but the woman merely smiles serenely and lifts a finger to her lips. He's confused for a few seconds, but she laughs quietly and points next to him.

Kanan is out cold, resting his head against the wall. His head lolls, before finally falling onto Ezra's shoulder.

The boy squeaks, much to Ahsoka's mirth. She manages to catch his gaze again by waving and pulling something from her utility belt.

Ezra recognizes the object. It's a holorecorder- his parents used to have one, and he too grins as he realizes the object's intended purpose. Ahsoka stifles a rather unprofessional snicker, then clicks a button on the device.

With absolutely no regard for his teacher's well-deserved rest, Ezra calls out: "Hey! Sabine! I think I found your next muse!"

**Author's Note:**

> if you like my work, want to come cry with me about star wars or just wanna shoot me a message, make sure to check out my tumblr: https://transrightstano.tumblr.com. 
> 
> thank you for reading!


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